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"So, I'll be seein' you once the weather turns."
Rust startled, his boot half-tugged on, and looked over to the bed. Dressed in nothing but the dim light of early morning, Yote lounged on the room's threadbare mattress. A fizzling cigarette dangled from his fingers as he stared at the ceiling. Rust must have been too lost in his thoughts to hear the lighter's click. He'd hoped to slip away unnoticed, wanting to spare himself any sappy goodbyes or second thoughts. He told himself he wasn't sneaking out—just getting an early start before Yote could convince him to do something stupid, like stay.
As much comfort as there was in tangled sheets and Yote's careless touches, it snarled around his heart like barbed wire. Staying meant putting down roots, looking for more than just the next sunrise. He didn't trust himself not to be tempted.
"Right," Rust stamped his foot, and it slid into place with a thump. "I'll see you then."
That was the agreement. Rust would take the truck for the summer, scout the badlands, and return with any good scrap. Whatever he could find meant money to get them out of here by winter. He figured he was looking forward to it; anything beat being stuck in a rundown settlement's cheap excuse for an apartment.
Stampede, it was called. A small, sagging place that clung to the skeleton of an old rodeo arena. If Yote was telling the truth, before the bombs, it had hosted massive events. Crowds pressed in to watch un-mutated brahmin trample, toss, and spear the unlucky bastards there to compete. Rust often wondered if Yote had been one of those idiots, but he never confirmed it.
But, even if he didn't say it out loud, this blood-soaked ground actually meant something to Yote. That unspoken history had buzzed under his skin as he writhed and arched under Rust's touch.
Yote nodded, pleased. A chunk of ash crumbled to the wooden floor. Slowly, he said, "Suppose you couldn't show me your maps one more time? Might be smart, if things go sideways." Something odd glinted in the ghoul's dark eyes.
While a bit of a weird request, Rust didn't argue. They'd barely spent part of last night looking over the surrounding area before getting...distracted. It made sense that Yote might have forgotten.
The worn drawstring threatened to snap as he tugged his pack open. Paper in hand, he unfolded them across the wobbling table in the center of the room.
Miles and miles of land across northern Wyoming spread out before his eyes. It was a patchwork of hunting maps and tourist guides Rust had painstakingly taped together. The shifting landscapes sparked a distant, bitter reminder of the dead skin scattered across his rotting flesh.
He coughed, smothering the spark in his chest, and gestured. "Here it is." Tracing a simple route, he said, "I'll stick east. Don't want to get too close to the mountains."
Stark naked, Yote sauntered up to his side, inhuman heat rolling off him in waves. "That's smart," he mumbled. As Yote stared, the sun rose higher, orange light slanting across the dusty room. He could feel those keep eyes flicking over every detail. Rust shifted around, eager to get on the road. During his time away, things always seemed simpler; he didn't have to think as much, even if his chest felt a little hollow.
As he fidgeted, suddenly a warmth pressed against his side. Yote's hand rubbed over his hip bone in slow, dizzying circles before sliding into Rust's back pocket. The gentle touch forced Rust still. His heart jolted like a rad rabbit caught in a trap, eyes darting around as worry surged through him. The other ghoul still stared at the map, expression unimpressed, unfazed by the obvious tension in Rust's body. For a heartbeat, Rust teetered between comfort and panic, frustrated by how easily Yote could unnerve him while pretending nothing was out of place.
The small point of contact burned, a brand searing into his flesh. Rust recalled a distant morning, the same hands making heat crawl under his skin. He could remember his started flinch when Yote, half-asleep, had tried to hold him too close. His body still felt the guilt of wanting and the sting of being wanted back. He was tempted to bat the hand away with a joke about Yote copping a feel for the road. But that would mean acknowledging this thing between them, and that scared Rust more than anything.
After an eternity, Yote moved away, muttering about good planning and "morning traffic." Rust didn't process any of it, frozen by the phantom presence in his pocket. It almost felt like he could reach back and find Yote's hand, there to cling to whenever he wanted. He stopped himself from doing exactly that, shaking the thought from his head.
"Now, don't go gettin' yourself killed out there," Yote said as the stamped out the fading cigarette. The ashtray balanced on the windowsill was already drowned in ash and crumpled butts. "I'd hate to lose an investment." A laughing shine flickered in his eyes.
"I'll be a lot safer without you to cause trouble," Rust shot back, folding up the map. "Besides, I always make it back."
Yote hummed as he peered around for his clothes. Somewhere in between dragging Rust on top of him and peeling off his shirt, his jeans had been kicked far under the bed. He leaned down to grab them, exposing the plane of his back. Rust felt heat slide down his stomach as he stared at the endless ridge of his spine and the slight dimples just above his—
Rust whipped around to fumble with his bag. This was why he wanted to leave early. Yote was infinitely less distracting when he was asleep. After confirming for the 50th time that, yes, there was a faulty buckle on the left pouch, he risked a glance behind him.
Just the other night, they had settled into this crumbling, metal-walled shack—one of dozens offered for rent nearby. The landlady had crammed in what she could afford: little beyond a rusted bedframe and an old diner table. The bed's mattress had a loose spring, which Rust remembered tossing and turning on most of the night.
The object of his thoughts waited expectantly by the door, gesturing for him to go outside. A stained tank top hung loose around his bony chest. Rust couldn't help pausing at the way the shirt highlighted the sharp wings of his shoulder blades. After he stepped onto the porch, he stared into the sun for a few seconds to knock some sense into himself.
The rest of Stampede had long since woken up. Ranchers and laborers milled around the dirt streets, many trading their wares at market stalls. A brahmin piled high with bags of feed brushed him as it lumbered by. The voice of a young town crier carried over the town's rumbling noise. A savory, smoky smell filled the air, making Rust's stomach growl. He had grown too used to not going hungry in his time with Yote.
Another ghoul, one of the few Rust had seen for miles, idly tended to a drum barrel grill. Small, skinned mammals dangled between the posts behind him. As Yote and Rust passed, he offered them a slight nod of recognition. Yote dipped his head in response and turned to Rust. Thoughtfully, he scratched at a peeling flake of flesh on his jaw. "You want a bite?"
There it was. The pinch between his eyebrows, the slight twist of his mouth. Rust always thought all the rads had given Yote some kind of telekinetic powers. That had to be why his stomach lurched when Yote looked at him like that.
"Not hungry, I guess," Yote chuckled, taking his grimace for disgust.
Rust grunted, striding forward to push through the sea of shambling bodies blocking the town's entrance. The sooner he put some distance between them, the sooner he could put these wants to rest.
With his faster pace, it didn't take much longer to reach their destination. Their chosen transportation was hidden behind a more permanent building that served as both offive and home for residents of note. When they appeared, a dust-whipped older woman rose from her rocking chair and spat into the dirt. Beer bottle tucked under her arm, she whipped a tarp off of Rust's ticket out before shuffling away, slamming the screen door behind her. She had already seemed weary of discussion when they'd arrived the other afternoon.
It had taken plenty of wheedling and smooth talking from Yote, but the landlady had agreed to let the truck (and Rust) stay overnight. Although she had requested they cover it, for safety's sake. Can't risk drawing that much attention 'round here, she'd rasped.
Drawing attention was at the back of Rust's mind as the engine groaned, creaked, and rattled before turning over with a victorious thunk. With the car rumbling beneath him, he couldn't find it in himself to care about much beyond the thought of the open road. It was the same urge that had convinced him to run with Yote in the first place.
A few curious heads turned toward the noise, but quickly jerked away at the sight of him and Yote. Leather squeaked under Rust's hand as his grip on the wheel tightened. Yote, however, simply waved them off. Rust could never understand how his partner was never bothered by all of it—the stares, the snide comments, people who steered away like their touch was poison. Even with the few hundred years Yote had over him, Rust didn't think he could ever be as thick-skinned.
If anything, that only made him more determined that Stampede was nowhere for him to be. Jaw set, he cracked the window to shoot Yote a look. The glass jolted violently in its frame.
"Better have some stories when you get back," the other ghoul said. He chewed at his lip, like he wanted to say something else. A breath, then, "And watch your back. Plenty of raiders'll be on the move now that it's warmer."
Rust nodded, his heart bucking like a fenced-in animal. The truck lurched forward as he pressed on the gas, torn between the wild promise of the open road and an ache that felt like it hollowed him out. Yote trailed his fingers along the car's side, impossibly gentle, skating along rust and peeled paint as it passed by. Rust felt the ghost of that touch, still burning in his pocket. A desperate impulse coiled in his chest to slam on the brakes and just stay.
But he buried it, and Yote's lithe figure dissolved into the dust and wind as he drove away. If felt like Rust's heart had snagged behind him, straining something inside him taut until he was sure it would snap completely.
As Stampede and everything he tried to forget faded into the back of his mind, he couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how many roads he drove, some part of himself was always going to be trapped here, grasping for all the things he couldn't have. His eyes stayed glued to the mirror, hoping that, somehow, Yote would reach out to touch him one more time.